


by the lake, during the war

by candyharlot



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand POV, First Time, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Scars, Thirsty Ferdinand von Aegir, Top Ferdinand von Aegir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24551581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyharlot/pseuds/candyharlot
Summary: Summer bleeds into fall, and Ferdinand is not remiss to the subtle tension likewise bleeding into their time together. While their day-to-day interactions inside the palace remain cordial, their tea-time conversations, once relaxing, become stilted, forced,lacking.Lacking for what, precisely, Ferdinand can hardly say. He knows only that the mystery of it keeps him awake at night, haunts his dreams. In them, he is treading on the precipice of it, whatever it is, and Ferdinand cannot stop himself from edging closer,closer,until he’s gazing down into the abyss, which is suspiciously the same pale, impenetrable green as Hubert’s eyes.Ferdinand longs to beconsumedby that abyss—body, mind and soul.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Ferdinand von Aegir & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 16
Kudos: 290





	by the lake, during the war

**Author's Note:**

> here it is, my (currently unbeta-ed) tribute to the ferdibert ship. i hope you all enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing it. and for those of you who aren't interested in the smut, stop reading after ferdinand and edelgard have their heart to heart :)
> 
> cw for mentions of hubert using sex as a weapon to gather intel pre-TS.

It begins with an invitation to tea, as these things often do.

Perhaps as a consequence of his noble upbringing, Ferdinand firmly believes there is no better way to further an acquaintance than to have tea with them. In addition to the intimate conversation it facilitates, it is interesting to note each person’s unique preferences in regards to flavor, aroma, brew strength, how much milk and sugar they stir in. Over the years, Ferdinand often found those preferences to hint at other, more complex preferences, as well as personality traits.

For example, Hubert’s preference for imported Dagdan coffee, or—if the former is unavailable—a strongly-brewed cup of imported black tea such as Almyrian Pine Needle. Much like Hubert’s own presence, both are an assault on Ferdinand’s senses. Yet, given enough time—in Hubert’s case, five years and a violent, bloody war—the bitterness eventually gives way to a pleasant tangle of flavors which lingers on the tongue for hours.

There is one key difference, however. Whereas Ferdinand has never been especially fond of strong-bodied tea or coffee, he  _ has  _ grown fond of Hubert.

Three months have passed since the end of the war. Three months since Ferdinand took a knee in front of Edelgard’s throne, formally accepting his post as Prime Minister and thereby pledging his life to the Empire. Three months since he traded in his lumpy straw-filled cot for a proper bed, the blood-soaked turf of the battlefield for the plush carpet of Edelgard’s study—where he, Hubert and Edelgard now spend most of their evenings sipping cold tea and nibbling on stale biscuits as they debate international politics and draw up treatises that will dictate Fódlan's future.  _ Ferdinand’s  _ future.

A future which, loath as he is to admit it to himself, Ferdinand can no longer imagine without Hubert at his side. Not as his colleague, not as Edelgard’s loyal servant, a man whose fate has been intertwined with Ferdinand’s since they were but stars in their mothers’ eyes, but as his...friend, his companion, his…

No. Neither adequately describes his burgeoning feelings towards Hubert. Ferdinand knows this. He  _ also _ knows Hubert is not his to pursue, for as he has stated on multiple occasions, both to Ferdinand and their peers: his life belongs to Edelgard. The sole purpose of his existence is—has always been—to protect the crown, protect  _ her _ , from those who seek to destroy it.

Ferdinand reminds himself of this, every time the silence between them stretches on a moment too long. Every time Hubert laughs, and Ferdinand’s heart soars like a heartsick fool.

Summer bleeds into fall, and Ferdinand is not remiss to the subtle tension bleeding likewise into their time together. While their day-to-day interactions inside the palace remain cordial, their tea-time conversations, once relaxing, become stilted, forced.  _ Lacking.  _ Lacking for what, precisely, Ferdinand can hardly say. He knows only that the mystery of it keeps him awake at night, haunts his dreams. In them, he is treading on the precipice of it, whatever  _ it _ is, and Ferdinand cannot stop himself from edging closer,  _ closer _ , until he’s gazing down into the abyss, which is suspiciously the same pale, impenetrable green as Hubert’s eyes.

Ferdinand longs to be  _ consumed  _ by that abyss—body, mind and soul.

Hubert seems utterly impervious to Ferdinand’s struggle, and Ferdinand prides himself on his resolve thus far. That is—until one chilly, overcast afternoon, when Hubert strides into the Imperial gardens wearing not his usual uniform, but a billowy white shirt tucked into black breeches, coupled with riding boots and worn leather gloves. The wind has tousled the slick, meticulously combed waves of his hair, bringing attention to his features in such a way as to render Ferdinand utterly  _ speechless. _

And oh, Ferdinand  _ hates _ how desperately he wants to touch, to trace those cheekbones with his fingertips. His hands twitch at his sides as he rises to greet his friend.

“There you are, Hubert!” he says, overly bright. “I am so pleased to see you—it has been quite a day. I—ah,” he scratches the back of his head, “made you coffee. I hope it is strong enough to your liking.”

Hubert mirrors the gesture, smoothing a gloved hand over his mop of hair. “I apologize—I did not have time to change,” he says, and if Ferdinand did not know any better, he might describe his expression as sheepish. “Thank you. Tell me, how did your meeting with the merchants go? Have they agreed to our terms?”

They sit and settle into a languid conversation regarding the untrustworthiness of merchants, which quickly drifts to the current state of the garden, how certain flowers are blooming and others have hidden themselves away from the impending winter frost. As he listens, Ferdinand thinks on how of all the things that have changed between them over the years, perhaps the most rewarding has been Hubert’s demeanor. When they meet like this, it is almost as if he is at ease, unconcerned with societal expectations, of how he must present himself as Minister of the Imperial Household.

For instance, as Ferdinand relays his most recent correspondence with Bernadetta, Hubert leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and lets the collar of his shirt fall open.

Ferdinand pointedly ignores this, at least at first. He will be damned if he will be caught perusing Hubert’s exposed cleavage like a—a scoundrel! Even with the nobility dismantled as per Edelgard’s vision of a new Fódlan, Ferdinand still prides himself on upholding manners befitting of a gentleman. He tries to be as surreptitious as possible as he loosens his cravat, if only to offset the heat pooling under his skin at the sight of Hubert’s collarbone, the lovely curve of it disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt—

“Hm.”

Ferdinand freezes. He swallows, eyes drifting up to meet Hubert’s as he surveys Ferdinand over the rim of his coffee cup, head tilted to the side.

“Are you ill, Ferdinand? You’re looking rather flushed,” he comments, in that damnably rich, lilting voice of his, which torments Ferdinand’s thoughts so often of late. “Perhaps you should retire to your quarters for the evening, catch up on your rest. As I was the one out running errands this morning, I would be happy to assist with any remaining paperwor…”

Regrettably, Ferdinand does not hear the rest, for at the mention of retiring to his quarters, his mind supplies him with a lovely likeness of Hubert—gasping, writhing, his chest flushed as Ferdinand holds him to the headboard of his bed by his knobby wrists. Lightening ricochets down Ferdinand’s spine, settling in his toes, the tips of his fingers. He stares down at his hands, the aftershock of it humming in his ears as he flexes them experimentally in his lap.

Goddess above, what has  _ possessed _ him?

“…see to it that Her Majesty’s requests are fulfilled in your absence.”

Ferdinand promptly remembers himself, and scoffs.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hubert. I am perfectly well,” Ferdinand assures him, taking a long, hard sip of his rose petal tea and avoiding Hubert’s prying eyes, his cursedly alluring collarbones. “Besides, I am nearly finished outlining the annual budget. The sooner I finish, the sooner we can rectify the deficits and reallocate funds.” Another sip. “Goddess knows we must do something about the state of the villages outside of Enbarr.”

“My, my,” Hubert muses. “You truly are as noble as they come, aren’t you?”

Ferdinand bristles. “Why does that sound like an insult, coming from your lips?"

“I apologize. It was not meant as such,” Hubert says, and Ferdinand does not have to look up to  _ know _ Hubert is leering at him. “On the contrary, I consider your unwavering determination to be one of the more...” A heady pause. “Attractive aspects of your personality. Second only to your blinding optimism, of course.”

Ferdinand takes a measured sip of tea, praying Hubert does not notice the tremor in his hand. “I see,” he says, as he carefully sets the cup back on its accompanying saucer. “I will take the compliment. Thank you, Hubert.”

“You are most welcome.”

After one, two,  _ three _ beats of unbearable silence, Hubert clears his throat and rises from his chair. “I should return to Her Majesty. There is still much to do before the day is done,” he announces. “Oh, and Ferdinand…”

Ferdinand glances up, only to regret it immediately. Hubert is smirking—no, Hubert is  _ smiling _ down at him. It is a subtle thing, an upward tilt of the corner of his mouth, but it transforms Ferdinand’s innards into a flurry of butterflies.

Ferdinand swallows, coaching his voice into something resembling composed. “Yes?” he asks. “What is it?”

To Ferdinand’s utter dismay, Hubert’s smile fades before his eyes, at once replaced by that tight-lipped smirk Ferdinand once loathed to his very core. Now, he wishes only to kiss it, for Hubert to open up beneath his lips as a flower to the first ray of sunlight after a storm.

_ Goddess _ , he truly is doomed.

“Feel free to call upon me, should you need my assistance,” Hubert says, and Ferdinand focuses on Hubert’s hands as he adjusts his leather gloves, stretching his fingers. He speaks brusquely, as if the last few minutes had not transpired, as if he had not just called Ferdinand  _ attractive,  _ had not looked at him with…with…

No. Ferdinand does not dare to dwell on it, because he is not a fool.

As he so  _ desperately _ reminds himself.

“With the budget, of course,” Hubert clarifies, icy. “And thank you, Ferdinand, for your dedicated service to Her Majesty and the Empire. Your hard work does not go unnoticed.”

Ferdinand swallows the bile rising in his throat. “I am merely fulfilling my duty,” he says, with an upward tilt of his chin. He gives Hubert his most practiced smile, the one he saves for balls and other social engagements. “Goodbye, Hubert.”

As Ferdinand watches Hubert slink away, he takes in those cursedly long, lanky legs of his, those narrow hips Ferdinand yearns to bruise with his fingers and teeth, and it dawns on him: what if Hubert has been deliberately toying with him all this time? The compliments, the demure glances, the alleged vulnerability—none of it rings true, because each one is followed by a swift retreat into the safety of formalities. What purpose does such tumultuous behavior serve, other than to drive Ferdinand completely  _ mad _ ?

Ferdinand fights the urge to curl his hands into fists as he makes his way through the grounds of the Imperial palace. Hubert is a master strategist, that much is true. For every word he speaks, every action he takes, every scheme he concocts, there is a reason behind it. He is not the sort of man to lose his composure, let his impulses get the better of him.

He is, however, precisely the sort of man to arrive to a meeting sporting clothing he  _ knew _ would elicit a response from someone harboring lustful sentiments towards him, if only to confirm his suspicions.

The sheer idea of it, of Hubert deliberately toying with him as a cat would a mouse, reducing him to nothing more than one of his  _ pawns _ , as a means to an end, sets Ferdinand’s blood to a heady boil, and he wanders the grounds until the sun sets behind the forest surrounding Enbarr. Only then does he return to his office, where he works by candlelight until he falls asleep, with his cheek wrinkling the stack of papers Hubert had so graciously offered to take care of for him.

Another month passes before Hubert finally invites him to tea again and while Ferdinand accepts, it is with a splintered heart and mind. His sleep has been sparse and fitful, his appetite a mere shadow of what it once was. He cannot recall feeling this bitter, this conflicted about anything since before the war broke out. Taking advantage of every opportunity to remind Ferdinand of his personal flaws and putting him in his place was one thing, but tampering with his  _ emotions  _ like this…

It is a cruel game, even for Hubert.

Ferdinand intends to put a stop to it, regardless of what Hubert’s true intentions are. More and more, he finds his mind hopelessly adrift, occupied solely with thoughts of Hubert, of  _ them,  _ when his mind should be on the task at hand, should be on the round-table discussion that morning regarding the reallocation of military assets during peacetime. When the time came for Ferdinand to speak, it took him far longer than it should have to summon his wits.

Enough is enough.

“Thank you for joining me,” Hubert says once they sit down. “In spite of how little time we have today.”

Ferdinand’s fingers clench tight around the fragile handle of his teacup. “Of course. This is a welcome respite,” he replies, fighting to keep his tone amicable. “It has been a long day already, and it is scarcely noon. To think we have to endure more of this tomorrow… I am not looking forward to it, to say the least.”

“Your proposal seemed to go over well with the Brigidian delegates,” Hubert replies. “Petra will be pleased. She is the one who recommended you as ambassador, after all.”

“Indeed,” Ferdinand agrees, taking a sip of his tea. It is saccharine on his tongue, steeped a smidgen too long. He swallows it down anyway, then takes another. And another.

Hubert studies Ferdinand as he stirs his coffee. After a moment, he sets the spoon down on his napkin.

“Ferdinand,” he says, tentative, and the muscles in Ferdinand’s body seize so abruptly that the tea spills over the rim of his cup, staining his pristine, freshly laundered white gloves. “Is there something troubling you?”

Ferdinand shakes his head, crossing one leg over the other and turning to the side. “Nothing at all,” he replies, bordering on flippant. “Why do you ask?”

“Curious. Your body language and overall demeanor say otherwise,” Hubert remarks as he sips his coffee. “Particularly in my presence…or so I’ve noticed. You may be a man of many talents, Ferdinand, but I’m afraid concealing your emotions is not one of them.”

“Hah!” Ferdinand barks. A stale, repressed wave of anger crashes over him, the heat of it rising on the back of his neck, slowly spreading along his scalp. “How predictably arrogant of you, to assume it is your  _ presence _ that has influenced my demeanor! As if I have not been working tirelessly to insure the future of—”

Hubert cuts him off. “Enough,” he snarls. “This is not an attack on your person, Ferdinand. This is  _ me, _ showing concern for  _ you _ . You, who has single-handedly robbed me of my patience and mental fortitude and whose health and well-being I seem to have a personal stake in.”

Ferdinand watches, utterly bewildered, as Hubert takes a deep, ragged breath, and sits back. “Right. I can see how that I have overstepped my bounds,” he mutters, pressing a gloved hand to his forehead. “Forgive me.”

Hubert’s clumsy admission cuts to the quick, and Ferdinand suppresses a shiver as the tangle of sentiment he has been shoving down for weeks, months,  _ years, _ rises up in his throat, threatening to spill over at the slightest provocation. Ferdinand must master his emotions before this continues any further, for once he speaks his heart, his mind, there will be no turning back for either of them.

As he sits there, processing his turmoil, he watches Hubert’s frown deepen, watches Hubert retreat further into himself, out of Ferdinand’s reach, and it strikes him that perhaps this did not, as he previously thought, begin with tea. Perhaps this began,  _ truly _ began, a year ago, on that foggy morning towards the end of the war. The morning Ferdinand stumbled upon Hubert bathing in a lake outside their camp, the morning fog clinging to the still surface of the water.

Perhaps it began when Ferdinand stood there for what felt like an eternity, cataloguing in his mind the shapes of the scars on Hubert’s back and arms, the knobs of his spine, the way the wiry cords of muscle moved beneath his skin—how in that moment, Ferdinand realized he wanted to know what it would feel like, to trace the lines of his shoulders, his scars, with his fingertips. Would Hubert mind the thick callouses at the base of his palm? Would he mind how clammy Ferdinand’s hands get when his nerves overtake him, when he wants so  _ desperately _ to please?

Perhaps it was then, and Ferdinand  _ has _ been a fool—a fool to think those feelings died on the battlefield when they have been festering, slowly suffocating Ferdinand from the inside out.

Still, he needs to  _ know,  _ to hear Hubert say something, anything that will assure him he is not alone in this turmoil, for although he is no stranger to the horrors of war, narrowly survived a poison-laced blade ripping through his shoulder, Ferdinand does not think he could bear the pain of Hubert rejecting him. His truth.

Even the imaginary pain of it is too much to bear, and it pushes him over the edge.

“You infernal, utterly  _ inscrutable _ man!” Ferdinand nearly shouts, his fist coming down on the iron table separating them. He leans forward, drops his voice to a hushed whisper, so as not to further disturb those around them—no matter that several have already glanced their way, and the couple occupying the table nearest to them have long since departed.

“You say you are concerned for my well-being, yet you have done nothing except toy with me for  _ weeks!”  _ he hisses. “What is your aim, hm? To weaken my resolve? Distract me from my responsibilities, which grow more numerous by the day? Or do you simply seek to humiliate me, for your own personal amusement?”

Ferdinand takes a deep, sobering breath. Closes his eyes. “Please, for the love of the goddess, Hubert,” he says. “Enlighten me as to your intentions, so I may respond accordingly.”

Earlier, when Ferdinand mentally rehearsed this conversation, he accounted for one of two scenarios to unfold: either Hubert would roll his eyes and scold Ferdinand before continuing on with the conversation, or he would simply take his leave, but not before stating that he had no time for Ferdinand’s antics.

What Ferdinand did not foresee—could not have possibly foreseen, even in his wildest dreams—was Hubert’s face igniting in a blush so violent, so  _ breathtaking, _ it puts the Imperial roses behind him to shame.

The sight of Hubert affected thus, because of  _ him _ , reignites the ache, the profound yearning that took root in him that day at the lake, and the force of it snatches the breath from his lungs. He sits, paralyzed, heart thundering against his ribs like hoofbeats on a battlefield, as Hubert slowly reaches out and places his hand atop Ferdinand’s.

“While it may be difficult for you to believe, Ferdinand, I have no ulterior motive when it comes to…this. To you and I,” Hubert says, fervent and honest in a way Ferdinand has never heard him, and all at once Ferdinand knows he wants—no,  _ needs  _ to hear it again, needs to hear Hubert say his name like that again.

Hubert’s fingers slip between Ferdinand’s, upsettingly gentle. “As you know, I was only a boy, when I devoted my life to Her Majesty’s service, to her cause,” he explains. “I resigned myself to a solitary existence, unfettered by attachments. I did not allow myself even the smallest of indulgences, to fall prey to selfish desires. To do so would’ve had disastrous consequences, put everything Her Majesty worked for in jeopardy. It was not an option.”

Hubert’s eyes flicker up to Ferdinand’s. “And yet, more and more, despite knowing I shouldn’t, I find myself indulging in the time we spend together like this—outside of the war room, outside of court duties and matters of state and country.  _ You,  _ Ferdinand, for all that you infuriate and confound me,” Hubert sighs a heavy sigh, “are my singular indulgence.”

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, the epitome of intellect. He places his unoccupied hand on his chest, as if it will calm his galloping heart, which seems hellbent on breaking free of his chest. “Oh,  _ Hubert. _ ”

“Do you recall that morning by the lake, before the final battle in Fhirdiad? I was bathing, and you…happened upon me,” Hubert rasps. He hangs his head over their joined hands, the dark tendrils of his hair falling across the left side of his face. Hubert’s hands, fully capable of wiping out half a battalion of armored men with a flick of his wrist, tremble in Ferdinand’s grasp, and Ferdinand squeezes them tighter, leans in closer, until the edge of the iron table digs into his middle.

“Of course!” Ferdinand replies with a tremulous smile. His throat aches, his eyes burn, yet he cannot bring himself to look away from Hubert for even a moment. “How could I forget? You were positively resplendent in the morning light. Your skin, it—”

The blush darkens impossibly, migrates all the way to the tips of Hubert’s ears. “Ferdinand,” he warns. “Please, let me finish.”

Ferdinand clears his throat. “Right—my apologies,” he says. “Please, do go on.”

“I…heard you approach,” Hubert continues, his eyes flickering up to Ferdinand’s, and in that moment he appears every bit as raw, every bit as vulnerable, as Ferdinand’s heart feels. “I listened as the leaves crunched beneath your boots, the breath catching in your lungs as you realized it was _me_ standing there, scrubbing the blood and grime from my skin. I expected you to run back to camp, disgusted by what you'd seen, but you stayed, you… _watched_ me, as if I was a creature made to be beheld, admired. I relished it, the sensation of your gaze traveling over my body. I wanted so desperately to turn around, to…” Hubert pauses, shakes his head. “Ferdinand, I—”

“My dearest Hubert,” Ferdinand finds himself saying, low enough so only Hubert can hear him. His throat is tight, his mouth a barren field in the middle of a drought. He squeezes Hubert’s hands tighter still, the stitching of his gloves creaking in protest. “I would love nothing more than to indulge you.”

Hubert lets out a shuddering breath, and Ferdinand is gutted to see him retreat into himself once more. While he does not take his hands back, his shoulders stiffen, and his mouth curves into that humorless smirk Ferdinand knows all too well. “You could not possibly mean that,” he scoffs.

“Have I ever been one to mince my words?” Ferdinand protests. “I daresay you know me better than to think I would—”

Hubert pinches the bridge of his aquiline nose. “Ferdinand, I have nothing to offer you, other than my truth, embarrassing as it is,” he replies. “I have no lands, nor title. My life is as good as forfeit. While you and Her Majesty make arrangements to rebuild Fódlan, I must continue fighting the war against Those Who Slither In The Dark. My hands are tainted, Ferdinand, just as my soul is tainted.”

Ferdinand shakes his head. “Hubert, I do not—”

“It would be prudent,” Hubert continues, cold and detached, “if you bestowed your affections on one more suitable than I.”

Incensed, Ferdinand takes back one of his hands and grabs Hubert by the chin, forcing his gaze back to his own. “It would be far more prudent to listen to me,” he says. “When I tell you my affections are mine and mine alone, and I will bestow them upon whomever I damn well please.”

For the first time, at least in Ferdinand’s memory, Hubert appears to be at a loss for words. He watches, enraptured, as Hubert’s thin lips part ever so slightly, as his eyes glass over. “Ferdinand,” he croaks. “People are watching us.”

Alas, Ferdinand cannot bring himself to care about anything beyond this moment, beyond Hubert’s delicious response to his ministrations. He grins in wonderment as he smooths his thumb over Hubert’s bottom lip, and Hubert parts his lips a bit further, surprisingly,  _ perfectly _ pliant. How easy it would be, for Ferdinand to slip his thumb between them, onto that infamous silver tongue—

“Come to me, tonight,” Ferdinand murmurs, as he traces the sharp line of Hubert’s jaw with his fingertips. “I must have you.”

Hubert flushes anew at the brazen admission, his pupils blown, and all Ferdinand can think of is how absolutely  _ decadent  _ he would look, nude and laid out on his four-poster bed, clawing desperately at the sheets as Ferdinand acquaints himself with every inch of his body.

“Believe me when I tell you I desire nothing more,” Hubert says, so intensely that Ferdinand has no choice  _ but  _ to believe him. “Unfortunately, there is a rather sensitive matter I must take care of for Her Majesty, in the heart of Hresvelg territory. I fear I will not return for several days.”

“Upon your return, then,” Ferdinand replies without hesitating, pressing his lips to the back of Hubert’s gloved hand. The idea of waiting even a moment longer to have Hubert to himself makes Ferdinand’s heart ache, of course it does, but Ferdinand knows better than anyone how important Hubert’s work for the Empire is. If he thought Hubert would accept, he would offer to accompany him, damn the consequences.

“Come to me at once,” he tells him. “The hour does not matter. I will keep my doors unlatched for you, the candles lit.”

When Hubert reaches up to trace Ferdinand’s cheek with his knuckles, Ferdinand has to bite his lip to keep a moan from escaping.

“Oh, Ferdinand,” Hubert breathes, brow furrowed. “I fear I will only disappoint you.”

“Nonsense,” Ferdinand retorts. He clears his throat, then rises to his feet, careful to smooth out the wrinkles in his waistcoat and breeches, hoping Hubert’s…effect on him is not as noticeable as it feels. “Now, let us return to our official duties, dull as they are in comparison to all that awaits us,” he says with a grin. “I do hope the days and hours past swiftly until we are reunited.”

Hubert lets out a chuckle as he rises to his feet, blessed music to Ferdinand’s ears. “As do I,” he agrees. “As do I.”

—

The following week is poised to be Ferdinand’s undoing, and it nearly is.

Not knowing how else to soothe the restlessness, the inconsolable  _ emptiness  _ that has plagued him since Hubert’s departure, he busies himself with menial tasks in addition to his usual duties as Prime Minister. When he is not picking at his food in the dining hall, sitting in Edelgard’s study or debating with foreign delegates across the war table, he wiles away his idle hours at the stables, tending to the most recent crop of foals in addition to putting his own mare through her daily paces.

On the seventh night, after dinner, Edelgard invites Ferdinand to her study to discuss the weekly reports drifting in from their agents abroad. Yet while he and Edelgard have made great strides since their days at Garreg Mach, have even formed a camaraderie of sorts, it feels strange to be sitting in front of her without Hubert at his side. Still, he grins and bears it, and tries his utmost not to glance over at the empty chair next to him, at least not overtly.

Apparently he does a poor job of it, because Edelgard raises a pale eyebrow in question as he returns his attention to her.

Ferdinand swallows. While he has never been able to put his finger on it, something about the way Edelgard regards him—has  _ always  _ regarded him, even when they were children, their foreheads barely reaching the elbows of their fathers—makes Ferdinand’s blood run hot and cold all at once, his muscles ripple as if in preparation for battle. Tonight is no exception, and the longer she stares at him, the more anxious Ferdinand becomes.

“Before we continue,” Edelgard says at last, her eyes flickering to the empty chair, “there is…another matter I wish to discuss with you, Ferdinand.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Ferdinand replies as he gathers the sheets of parchment into a neat stack. He rests his clasped hands in his lap, giving her his undivided attention. “I am at your service.”

Edelgard graces him with a small, furtive smile. “While I am happy to hear it, this matter does not require your services as my Prime Minister,” she says. “It requires your service as my…friend, as it were.”

“Edel—Your Majesty, do you…truly consider me to be your friend?” Ferdinand frowns. While he has considered Edelgard  _ his _ friend for quite some time, to hear that it is reciprocated fills him with equal amounts elation and confusion.

“Yes. It would appear so,” Edelgard replies, leaning back in her chair. While Ferdinand has always considered Edelgard beautiful, she is at her most stunning at the end of the day, when she has traded her formal regalia for a blouse and breeches, and her hair tied into a loose braid that hugs the side of her elegant neck. She toys with the braid now, and the gesture is almost human enough to set Ferdinand at ease.

Almost.

Edelgard’s unsettling eyes flash to his. “Before he left, Hubert informed me of his intentions,” she says. “Regarding you.”

Ferdinand’s heart skips a beat. “His…intentions,” he echoes, mouth dry.

“Yes, Ferdinand. Which brings me to the matter I wish to discuss,” Edelgard says, in the commanding tone that she usually saves for the war council, and Ferdinand reflexively straightens in his chair.

Edelgard sighs, softening once she has his attention once more. “Hubert is not only my advisor,” she says. “He is my dearest, oldest friend. He knows me better than anyone, perhaps even better than I know myself. To have him at my side all of these years, advising me, being there for me…before the war, during the war, and now that the war is over. His presence in my life has been utterly indispensable.”

Edelgard frowns, her eyes distant even as she stares directly at Ferdinand. “There were many times… I truly do not know what I would have done without him, Ferdinand. He has saved me in countless, immeasurable ways.”

She takes a deep breath. “His happiness…is my happiness. I told him, once the war was over, to follow his heart. And I have seen how happy he is, when he is with you. Please, Ferdinand,” she bows her silver head. “Just as you have sworn your allegiance to me, swear that you will treat him with the utmost care. I am afraid he is far more fragile than he appears, especially in matters of the heart.”

Ferdinand swallows the knot that has been steadily building in his throat. “I swear,” he says. “On my life and my honor, I swear to you I will cherish him, should he choose to entrust his heart to me.”

“That is all I ask of you,” Edelgard replies, and tosses her braid over her shoulder. “Very well. Shall we return to the reports, then?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

—

Hours later, the faint stench of blood rouses Ferdinand from a fitful sleep. Before his eyes even have a chance to adjust, he finds himself reaching for the dagger in the drawer of his nightstand, relieved to find it precisely where he hid it the day he moved into his quarters. A drop of sweat rolls down his jaw, his neck, onto his chest as his fingers curl around the ivory handle.

“Wh-Who’s there?” he calls into the dark.

No answer, yet a draft stirs the normally still, stale air of his quarters, prickling the hairs on his exposed legs.

Heart hammering in his throat, Ferdinand tugs his robe around his shoulders as he pads slowly, quietly across his bedroom, into the foyer.

“Hubert?” he says again, voice hoarse from sleep. “Is that you?”

“F…Ferdinand?” comes Hubert’s voice, broken in a way that curdles Ferdinand’s blood, and Ferdinand rushes over to the hunched-over form of Hubert, sitting on the bench by the window. As Ferdinand’s eyes finally adjust, the first thing he notices is how his hair shines under the moonlight, as though wet or slicked with oil. The second thing he notices is how the closer he gets, the heavier the copper sits on his tongue.

Ferdinand lowers himself onto the bench next to him, fully awake, now. He sets the dagger on the windowsill.

Hubert does not move.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand breathes. “Are you injured?”

Hubert lifts his head just enough for Ferdinand to see his face, the glimmer of his eye. “No,” he croaks, and Ferdinand can hear the click of his throat working around the words. “Not…my blood.”

“Good, good. That’s good,” Ferdinand says, defaulting to the same soothing tone he uses with a spooked horse. He reaches down, places a cautious hand on Hubert’s thigh. It is damp, cold, quivering ever so slightly with what Ferdinand assumes— _ hopes _ is fatigue. “Come with me,” he says, then rises to his feet. He holds out his hand. “I shall draw you a warm bath.”

Hubert catches Ferdinand’s wrist in a vice grip, a far cry from the gentle touches of their last interaction. It takes Ferdinand’s breath away.

“This…was a mistake,” Hubert says, voice wobbling precariously. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Feeling rather at a loss, Ferdinand drops down to his knees in front of him. He takes both of Hubert’s gloved hands in his, peering up into his inscrutable face. The gloves he wears are the same black leather from the other day, only now they are sticky with something Ferdinand would rather not put a name to at the moment.

Ferdinand focuses on Hubert, on Hubert’s moss-green eyes, wild and terrified, staring  _ through  _ Ferdinand, rather than at him. “Stay with me, Hubert,” he tells him, pleads with him. “I have waited for you, and I want you. I want you _ here _ . With me.”

Hubert turns away with a scowl. “I’m sure this isn’t the passionate reunion you were envisioning,” he mutters. “I warned you, didn’t I? That I would only disappoint y—”

Ferdinand surges up, captures Hubert’s face in his hands, captures Hubert’s salty, chapped lips in his own before he can say another word. Hubert is right about one thing. This is certainly  _ not _ how he envisioned their reunion, nor their first kiss, yet it is perfect all the same, because it is  _ Hubert. _

It is all the more perfect when Hubert responds with a shuddering moan into Ferdinand’s mouth, his hands coming up to tangle in Ferdinand’s hair, as if he is a drowning man and Ferdinand has just pulled him bodily to the surface.

It takes every ounce of self-control Ferdinand possesses to pull himself away, to stand on legs that have turned to jelly because as much as he would have liked Hubert to continue, to press him down on the cold stone floor of his quarters and take him viciously, Hubert is  _ filthy,  _ covered in the blood of Edelgard’s shadow-dwelling enemies.

Hubert tries to yank him back in for more, a scowl on his lips, but Ferdinand places a firm hand on his chest.

“Bath—first,” he chokes out.

Hubert mutters something under his breath but this time, at least, he lets Ferdinand help him to his feet and lead him to his private bath, even if he does fight Ferdinand every step of the way.

—

Ferdinand takes his time undressing Hubert. With slow, methodical precision, he unfastens Hubert’s bloody, tattered cape, his jacket, his myriad of belts and buckles and hidden daggers, and places it all in a pile by the fireplace. When he finally reaches Hubert’s undershirt, Hubert seems to return to himself, as evidenced by him reaching out and pulling Ferdinand to him, enveloping him.

Ferdinand melts into the embrace, pulling away minutes later only so he may press a gentle kiss to Hubert’s lips, trace the tired lines of his face with his fingertips.

“Tell me, Hubert,” he says, and kisses him again. “What happened in Hresvelg?”

Hubert rests his forehead against Ferdinand’s, his hands coming up to grip Ferdinand’s arms, as if to ground himself.

“I accomplished my mission in Hresvelg,” he says. “Upon my return to Enbarr, however, I was ambushed by a troupe of bandits. Nothing I have not dealt with before, of course, only these bandits had an exceptionally powerful mage. I was able to dispose of her, but not before she countered with Thoron.”

Hubert pulls away slightly, shakes his head. “The rest is…unfortunately, a blur. I had intended to bathe, at least, before presenting myself to you,” he breathes against Ferdinand’s temple before pressing a kiss there. “I deeply apologize. I…never wanted you to see me in such a deplorable state.”

Ferdinand shivers, and buries his face in Hubert’s neck. He reeks of sweat, and blood, and earth, but underneath all of that is a sharp, bittersweet musk that is unmistakably  _ Hubert.  _ “We fought a war together, remember?” Ferdinand says, his hands traveling down to the hem of Hubert’s shirt. “I have seen you in a variety of states, and this is hardly the worst of them.”

Hubert swallows, his Adam's apple moving against Ferdinand’s lips. “Still,” he objects, hoarsely. “I had wished for a more…pleasant homecoming, as it were.”

“Oh? Is this not pleasant?” Ferdinand teases, his hands wandering beneath Hubert’s shirt to settle on his narrow waist. Hubert arches into the firm touch, bringing their bodies closer than they have ever been, and Ferdinand takes the opportunity to slide his arms around his back, pulling him closer, closer, until he can feel the evidence of Hubert’s arousal pressing against his own.

Ferdinand’s vision blurs. Even now, it is difficult to believe. All this time, while he was touching himself to thoughts of Hubert, Hubert was likely doing the same to the thought of  _ him. _

Ferdinand leans away, only so he can tug the shirt over Hubert’s head, tossing it to the side with his other ruined garments.

“That’s not— _ ah— _ ” Hubert moans, wanton, as Ferdinand smooths his palms across his bony chest, the taut planes of his stomach. “Ferdinand… _ ” _

Ferdinand continues to explore, until he is running his hands down the sinewy muscle of Hubert’s arms, his sharp elbows, the jut of his wrists.

And stops. Lingers.

“Your gloves,” Ferdinand breathes, and Hubert’s entire body tenses, his shoulders drawing up around his ears. “I do not believe I have ever seen you without them.”

Hubert takes a deep, rattling breath. “There’s a reason I took my baths in the middle of the night at Garreg Mach,” he mutters, averting his eyes from Ferdinand’s. “I suppose there’s no helping it now, is there?”

“Hubert,” Ferdinand says. “When I said I wanted you, I meant  _ all  _ of you. We both have scars, parts of ourselves we are ashamed of. I do not wish to hide from you, just as I do not wish you to hide from me. Please,” he tugs on one soiled glove, his knuckles brushing against his pulsepoint. “May I see you?”

Hubert exhales through his nose, and his shoulders relax a bit. He will not meet Ferdinand’s eyes. “Very well,” he says curtly. “Do as you please.”

Ferdinand tugs at the fingertips of the gloves, loosening them before pulling them off entirely. All the while, Hubert focuses on the wall just behind Ferdinand, with an expression so utterly detached it makes Ferdinand’s heart ache. He hopes Hubert will forgive him for this.

Once Hubert’s hands are laid bare, Ferdinand does not hesitate—he brings them to his lips, pressing fervent kisses to each calloused knuckle. And while Hubert doesn’t pull away, Ferdinand is mindful of the small tremors that wrack his body with each kiss, the sharp inhale as Ferdinand turns his hands over and begins tracing the lines of his palms with his lips.

“Ferdinand, you don’t—” Hubert chokes out, his breath tickling Ferdinand’s cheek. “That’s…hardly necessary.”

Ferdinand hums as he inspects the vine-like scars traveling from Hubert’s ashen fingertips up the lengths of his forearms. “These markings… Does it hurt?” he asks, tipping his head back to meet Hubert’s eyes.

Hubert shakes his head, his mop of dark hair tumbling into his pale, dirt-streaked face. “No. Not anymore,” he says. “Not for a long time.”

Ferdinand nods. “May I ask how it happened?”

Hubert swallows, and finally,  _ finally,  _ meets Ferdinand’s eyes. “Another time,” he says with a soft, sad smile that tugs at Ferdinand’s heart. “Perhaps after our bath?”

Ferdinand smiles back, and nods.

“Take off your pants, dearest.”

—

Unfortunately, the wash basin is not quite large enough for the both of them, thanks to Hubert’s long legs, and Ferdinand makes a mental note to have it replaced with another, larger one as soon as he is able. It is not a total loss, however. This way, Ferdinand can kneel down next to the basin, and admire Hubert’s lithe form.

As Hubert leans over to scrub his legs and feet, Ferdinand finds himself marveling at the angles and curves of his back, the intricate web of scars on his right side traveling from his shoulder down to his hip, and  _ oh,  _ he can hardly wait to kiss every inch of the man.

“May I wash your back?” Ferdinand asks, already reaching for another washcloth from the shelf hanging above the bath.

Hubert glances over his shoulder. “Please,” he says, and straightens slightly to give Ferdinand better access.

Ferdinand is gentle, yet firm where necessary. After working the soap into a rich lather, he kneads the washcloth into the tense cords of muscle lining Hubert’s shoulders, stopping only when Hubert lets out a breathless groan—which, of course, only feeds the fire burning in Ferdinand’s gut, the one that’s been burning for a week, now. He has been half-hard in his small clothes the entire time Hubert’s been in the bath, and the more he touches Hubert, the more he hears him, the harder he becomes.

Honestly, it is all he can do not to haul Hubert out of the bath and throw him on the bed, towels be damned.

Ferdinand is so deep in thought, he startles when Hubert’s long, slender fingers close around his wrist.

“Ah—I apologize, was I too rough?” Ferdinand asks, biting his lip. “You were just so tense, I thought—”

“No, I…” Hubert rasps. He hangs his head, exposing the back of his neck, and for some reason the gesture takes the fire burning in Ferdinand from a smolder to roaring flames, licking at his insides. He lets the washcloth slip into the bath, then curls his fingers into Hubert’s freshly washed hair.

“What is it, Hubert?” Ferdinand prods as he massages Hubert’s scalp, clenching his hand into a fist around the inky strands. “Tell me.”

Hubert lets out a broken moan, his pale thighs clamping together, sloshing the water until it spills out the sides of the brass tub. “ _ Ferdinand _ ,” he snarls, fingers tightening around Ferdinand’s wrist until his knuckles turn white. He turns, just enough for Ferdinand to catch the glint in his eye.

Ferdinand smiles, beside himself. “Yes, Hubert?”

“Towel,” Hubert bites out.  _ “Now.” _

—

Hubert uses the towel to scrub the excess water out of his hair, and then it is on the floor, and he is on Ferdinand as if they never broke apart.

And goddess above, is it everything Ferdinand can do to keep up. The water that does not drip off of Hubert’s body onto the hearth, seeps into Ferdinand’s sleep shirt, and he suppresses a chill as Hubert’s thin lips slot against his own, prying his mouth open with a hunger that has Ferdinand positively  _ quaking  _ beneath him. He hardly registers Hubert’s hands scrambling for purchase in his tangled mess of hair, yanking his roots as he maneuvers him this way and that, so immersed is he in  _ Hubert _ , Hubert’s hands, Hubert mouth on his—

Ferdinand gasps as the edge of his bed catches the backs of his knees, and he falls, pulling Hubert atop of him, those blessedly narrow hips snug between his thighs and the length of his cock pressing insistently against his hip.

Ferdinand arches at the sensation, how  _ perfect  _ Hubert feels moving against him, and his heart swells in his chest with the need to be closer,  _ closer _ , to embrace this lovely shadow of a man who has bewitched him mind, body and soul. He uses the last of his mental faculties to wrench his damp shirt over his head just before Hubert moves in to kiss him again, and this time it is achingly slow, filled with the unmistakable intent to devour, to possess.

Ferdinand loosens a moan into Hubert’s mouth as slender hands roam up his stomach, his chest, thumbs circling his sensitive, hardening nipples. This is certainly not how he envisioned  _ this _ , either, with Hubert pinning him down rather than vice versa, yet the idea of stopping is unthinkable.

“Hubert, please—” he finds himself saying, _ pleading, _ as his cock pulses against the rigid seams of his small clothes, and it hurts,  _ oh _ how it hurts—a sweet, dizzying pain, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Hubert must notice his predicament, because in the next breath he reaches between them, and the heel of his palm presses against the sensitive, leaking head of Ferdinand’s cock as he loosens the leather cord.

“Carefu— _ fuck!”  _ Ferdinand squeezes his eyes shut, hands flying up to grip Hubert’s shoulders, and he digs his nails into the chords of lean muscle as he tries desperately not to spill prematurely into Hubert’s capable hand.

“Flames,” Hubert rasps, and he freezes, eyes locking with Ferdinand’s through his dark fringe of hair. He rests his hands on Ferdinand’s knees as he catches his breath. “Forgive me,” he frowns. “I thought—never mind. Am I the first to touch you like this?

Ferdinand swallows a sudden, guttural sob, and blinks away the hot tears prickling his lashes. He knows, intellectually, he should not be embarrassed, not in front of  _ Hubert _ of all people, yet he finds himself wanting to press his legs together, to wrench the sheets around his naked body, to curl into himself and  _ hide. _

Fortunately, Hubert catches Ferdinand’s face in his hands before he can do so, his cool palms blissful against Ferdinand’s burning cheeks. 

“Please. Do not close yourself to me,” Hubert says, as he pushes Ferdinand’s wild mane of hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ears, over his shoulders. “Tell me the truth of it.”

“You are…not the first.” Ferdinand surrenders, takes a deep breath. He re-situates himself on the bed, so that he is laying on his side, and leaning back on one elbow. “Shortly before I left for Garreg Mach, there was a stable girl who took an interest. It was nothing like this, of course. Nothing ever could be,” Ferdinand murmurs, raising his eyes to Hubert’s with a small smile.

“You see, I have wanted you, and only you, for quite some time. Longer, perhaps, than I cared to admit until this very moment.” Ferdinand turns to kiss the inside of Hubert’s wrist. “Before and even during the war, it never occurred to me to…with anyone else—”

Hubert cuts him off with a stirring kiss that settles deep in his bones, and when he leans back, Ferdinand is at once struck by the rawness of his expression, the intensity of his gaze as it bores into his own, and aroused to the point of breathlessness.

“And you, Hubert?” Ferdinand asks, before he can stop himself. “Have you ever…?”

Hubert’s fine brows knit together as he considers, and then he lets out a humorless scoff. “My experience with such matters has been rather limited,” he replies, haltingly. “Yet I cannot say I am ignorant.”

“Oh?” Ferdinand tilts his head to the side. “Do go on.”

Hubert’s jaw tenses. “No,” he says, resolute. “It is not a matter I wish to trouble you with.”

“And what if I wish to be troubled?” Ferdinand retorts. “I wish to know.”

Hubert stiffens, and to Ferdinand’s dismay, he takes his hands away, choosing instead to pick at a loose feather on the goose-down comforter beneath them. “There was a time, years ago,” he says, “when I employed such tactics to gather intelligence, to further acquaintances who were essential in Her Majesty’s ascension to the throne.”

Ferdinand nods, and, after a breath, pushes the curtain of hair back from Hubert’s brow, so that he may see his handsome face more clearly.

“I’m a tainted man, Ferdinand,” Hubert sighs, as he leans into Ferdinand’s touch. “I said as much before, in the garden.”

“Hush, Hubert,” Ferdinand replies, pinching Hubert’s gaunt cheek. “You are loyal, and brilliant, and highly skilled in a great many things I could never hope to be, knowledgeable in matters I can scarcely comprehend. I admire you, everything about you.”

Hubert growls.

“I want you, Hubert. Quite badly,” Ferdinand whispers. “I will say it as many times as I must.”

“Yes, well,” Hubert huffs, flushed from the tips of his ears down to his chest. “Keep in mind I have never warmed the bed of someone for the sole purpose of seeking their pleasure, much less my own.” He trails a finger from Ferdinand’s collarbone, down the center of his stomach, to the thatch of hair below his navel. 

“Until now,” he murmurs, meeting Ferdinand’s eyes. “As I lay here, with you.”

Ferdinand’s heart skips, and he is powerless as Hubert maneuvers them on the bed, until he is kneeling between Ferdinand’s legs, hands snaking up the insides of Ferdinand’s thighs, nails digging crescents into his skin as he slowly spreads them apart.

“Dearest— _ Hubert _ ,” Ferdinand whines on an exhale, mildly embarrassed at how high-pitched, how  _ wanton  _ his voice is to his own ears. “You needn’t—”

“I want to drown in you,” Hubert breathes, pressing a featherlight kiss to the underside of Ferdinand’s cock, through the fabric of his small clothes, and Ferdinand nearly rips the sheets off the bed as he resists the urge to buck his hips. “Immerse myself in your glorious body.”

Ferdinand cries out in response to Hubert’s praise, his touch, the knot in his stomach winding impossibly tighter as Hubert’s mouth warms his cock. If this continues, he knows he is bound to spill at any moment, and that simply will not do.

“I—I will not last,” Ferdinand gasps, rising up and onto his elbows. His eyes find Hubert’s, and in them is a mirror of the delirious, desperate lust threatening to destroy him,  _ them _ . “I wanted—I  _ want _ —”

“What is it you want, sweet Ferdinand?” Hubert asks with a voice made of silk, eyes never leaving Ferdinand’s as he draws Ferdinand’s small-clothes down and over his hips, his knees, his ankles. “Is the idea of my lips around your cock not pleasing to you?”

“You— _ minx _ —” Ferdinand chokes out, just as Hubert’s fingers wrap around his length, his grip steady and firm around the base. It is precisely what Ferdinand needs to stave off his impending orgasm, if only for a moment, saves him from utter ruin as Hubert drags his tongue along the length of him, as he devours the leaking, sensitive head of his cock.

Ferdinand’s heart stops. His back arches into a sharp bow, the only parts of him touching the bed his shoulders and the soles of his feet. Hubert’s mouth is so exquisite, so warm and wet and hungry—hungry for  _ him _ . It is this knowledge which drives Ferdinand to buck wildly, erratically into Hubert’s pliant mouth, lets himself be consumed by the love in his heart, the fire coursing through his veins.

When Ferdinand returns to himself, Hubert is laying atop him, his bony cheek pressed to Ferdinand’s stomach and his fingers combing through the fine ginger hair dusting Ferdinand’s chest.

“H-Hubert?” Ferdinand says, voice hoarse. Did he scream, when he spilled his seed down Hubert’s willing throat? For the life of him, he cannot recall. He caresses the line of Hubert’s cheek, lifting a lock of damp hair from his brow and curling it behind his ear. “Come here.”

And for once, Hubert does as he asks. Without saying a word, he moves up Ferdinand’s body, until his head rests in the crook of Ferdinand’s shoulder, and his lingering arousal throbs fitfully against Ferdinand’s thigh.

The moment Ferdinand regains the use of his limbs, he tenses his leg muscles, and frowns when Hubert gasps into his neck. “Dearest,” he murmurs, reaching down with one hand to cup the modest curve of Hubert’s ass. “Did you finish?”

“Not…” Hubert rasps, then swallows, his fingers tightening in the sheets. “Not necessary.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Ferdinand counters, as he pulls Hubert closer, until Hubert’s hard cock is flush against the crease of Ferdinand’s hip. He squeezes, pressing his index and middle finger between Hubert’s sweat-slick cheeks. “I wish to make you come.”

Hubert shudders against Ferdinand, his hips twitching in what Ferdinand assumes is a poor attempt not to rut against his thigh. Why is he holding himself back, after all that has transpired between them?

“Get on your knees, my dear,” Ferdinand says to him, with one last squeeze. “If you are not too weak, that is.”

Hubert huffs a laugh against Ferdinand’s chest, then maneuvers himself into the requested position. Once he is settled, knees on either side of Ferdinand’s hips, he glances over his shoulder, chewing his swollen bottom lip as he studies Ferdinand.

“I’m afraid this is hardly, ah…the best view,” he says, muscles rigid as Ferdinand caresses the scars of his back, the knobs of his spine with his fingertips. “Are you certain you don’t wish to—”

“I want you,” Ferdinand murmurs, as he begins to press delicate kisses to the whitened, raised marks left by lances, by swords and spears and daggers intent on killing Edelgard. “All of you.” Another kiss. _ “Always. _ ” Another.

_ I love you. _

Hubert crumples into a shivering, moaning mess beneath his lips, his hands as they slide up his ribs, pinch the buds of his nipples. “I’ve got you,” Ferdinand promises, Hubert’s breathing turning ragged as Ferdinand reaches down and wraps his fingers around him, strokes him slowly, deliberately.

“H-Harder,” Hubert demands after a moment, breathy and haughty and _ oh, _ Ferdinand loves it, loves hearing him like this, so desperate and unhinged. “Harder, damn you _. _ ”

“Patience, Hubert,” Ferdinand admonishes him, and takes his hand away, his own spent cock pulsing in interest when Hubert grinds his hips down. Ferdinand takes a deep breath, his manicured nails doubtless biting bruises into the flesh of Hubert’s hip as he tries to maintain his resolve.

Ferdinand leans up, his lips brushing against the shell of Hubert’s ear as he says, “Bend over for me.”

Hubert turns, eyes wide, pupils blown. “You cannot possibly intend to—”

“Oh, on the contrary. I very much intend to,” Ferdinand says, and nips at the flesh just below Hubert’s jaw. “Now bend over for me, while I fetch the oil.”

The tips of Hubert’s ears turn scarlet, as does the bridge of his nose, but in the end he does as Ferdinand asks—albeit rather awkwardly. Even as he “gets into position,” as it were, Ferdinand does not miss the way he limits his own vulnerability by curling his shoulders inward, hanging his head and clenching his ass-cheeks together.

Ferdinand shakes his head, heart overflowing with fondness as he retrieves the vial of warming oil from a box on his nightstand, uncorks it, and pours enough onto his fingers to loosen even Hubert’s fortified walls.

“Let me in, dearest,” Ferdinand murmurs, and he begins to rub at Hubert’s hole with two of his fingers, while he uses the palm of his other hand to massage the tension in the base of his spine. “I promise I will not hurt you.”

Hubert scoffs, and a bit of the tension ebbs away, allowing Ferdinand to press the tip of his index finger past the first ring of muscle. “That is not— _ ah _ —what concerns me.”

“Oh?” Ferdinand lets his finger be drawn in to the second knuckle, holding it there while Hubert pushes back against him.

“It— _ ah _ !” Hubert bites down on a cry when Ferdinand presses the entirety of his finger inside, massaging against his walls, and Ferdinand is so enthralled with the sight, the exquisite feel of Hubert bearing down on him, he forgets how to breathe.

Ferdinand adds another finger, and Hubert  _ keens,  _ throwing his head back as his spine snaps into a lovely bow.

“Is it too much?” Ferdinand asks, when Hubert begins to shiver, and Ferdinand notices droplets of sweat dripping down his ribs. “Shall I stop?”

“Don’t you  _ dare, _ ” Hubert snarls, shoulders heaving with each breath. Then, softer, “I…please, Ferdinand—”

“What is it, Hubert?” Ferdinand breathes, as he reaches down to stroke his own cock, which has begun to leak onto the sheets. He is still a touch oversensitive, even the drag of his own fingers enough to make him shudder. He cannot begin to imagine how  _ Hubert _ will feel stretched around him, warm and tight and oh-so-perfect—

Ferdinand leans forward, kissing the curve of Hubert’s ass as he adds another finger. “Do you want my cock inside of you?” he asks, lips fluttering against Hubert’s slick hole. He licks a stripe along his rim, where it stretches around his knuckles. “Or my tongue?”

Hubert pulses violently around his fingers, and Ferdinand glances down to see him squeezing the base of his own dripping cock. “Fuck me—I need you to  _ fuck _ me,” he growls. “Need your cock—inside of me,  _ ruining _ me—”

Ferdinand moves before he thinks, and a heartbeat later he is lining himself up with Hubert’s entrance, pressing the head of his cock down on Hubert’s swollen rim while Hubert claws at the sheets. “Please tell me to stop,” he says, as he grips Hubert’s hips with both hands, “if it is too much.”

“Get  _ on _ with it!” Hubert grits out, and after one shallow, experimental thrust, Ferdinand buries himself in Hubert to the hilt, stopping only when his hips are flush against Hubert’s ass, and Hubert is  _ writhing. _

Ferdinand does not move right away, not even as Hubert struggles against Ferdinand’s hold on his hips, tries to fuck himself on Ferdinand’s cock.

“Goddess, I never imagined you would be so  _ insatiable _ ,” Ferdinand says, pulling back and punctuating the last word with another, shallower, thrust. “Tell me, Hubert—” Ferdinand thrusts in again, until Hubert lets out a loud, guttural groan. “How long have you wanted this?”

“Before—the war,” Hubert chokes out, as he meets Ferdinand’s every thrust with a snap of his hips. “I have wanted you—for years— _ fuck!” _

Ferdinand pulls out only so he can flip Hubert onto his back, and then he is lifting his long, lanky legs and thrusting into him once more, the budding knot in his stomach tightening with every mewl, every noise that passes Hubert’s lips.

“Was it always like this?” Ferdinand asks, breathless with exertion, the sheer force of emotion swelling up within him as he takes in the sight of Hubert beneath him. He leans down, kisses the inside of Hubert’s knee as he slows his pace, rolls his hips. “You, underneath me? Taking me as if you were  _ made _ for it?”

Hubert tries to throw a hand over his face, but Ferdinand catches it, brings it to his lips instead. “Please,” he says. “Do you have any idea how many times I have dreamt of this? Of you?”

Hubert sucks in a breath, eyes glassy and unfocused as he stares up at him. “Flames,” he murmurs, voice tight, on the verge of breaking, “You truly will be the death of me.”

“Shall I…ah,” Ferdinand pulls out, then thrusts in again, quivering with how close he is to the edge already, despite his prior orgasm. “Would you prefer I…?”

Hubert digs his heels into Ferdinand’s lower back, snakes his arms around Ferdinand’s shoulders, pulling him closer, deeper as he whispers, “Make a mess of me.”

Ferdinand wastes no time. As he reaches between them, strokes Hubert’s cock, he slowly ramps up the pace of his thrusts, and hardly any time passes before Hubert is moaning into his mouth once more, his nails digging into his shoulders, and Ferdinand’s composure begins to slip—giving way to hard, erratic snaps of his hips that punch the breath from Hubert’s lungs.

_ “Ferdinand!” _ Hubert shouts as he spills between them, clenching hard around Ferdinand’s sensitive cock, and Ferdinand thrusts in as deep as he possibly can, holding Hubert close to his chest as another orgasm crashes over him, rips a sob from his lungs, followed by an incomprehensible tangle of praises and endearments.

In the moments after, as they lay tangled up in one another, gathering their breath and their wits, Ferdinand is the first to speak.

“Do you intend to stay?” Ferdinand asks, as he threads his fingers through Hubert’s thick, inky hair.

Hubert hums. “I should return to my own quarters before dawn, at least, seeing as my clothes are…worse for wear,” he says. “Judging by the light outside, I’d say we have another hour.”

“Indeed.” Ferdinand trails his fingers down the line of Hubert’s neck, the sharp jut of his shoulder blade. He would be content to study him like this for hours, learning each and every angle and curve of his body by candlelight. “Hubert?”

Hubert lifts his head from Ferdinand’s chest, raising himself up on one elbow. “Hm?”

“Would you care to watch the sunrise with me?”

Hubert’s pale green eyes search his for a moment, then he smiles, and Ferdinand’s heart  _ soars _ .

“I would be delighted.”


End file.
